A Series of Short Stories about William the Bloody
by Luddite Robot
Summary: A series of unconnected short stories by those who have encountered Spike and is paramour, Drusilla, during their reign of terror. Contains death, violence, confusion and drug use, among other things. SpikeDru, SpikeDru, SpikeDawn, SpikeOC, etc.
1. Old Frontiersmen

** A Series of Short Stories about William the Bloody **

for Joss Whedon, John Wayne, Graham Greene, Chet Baker, Juliet Landau and James Marsters, 

_ Old Frontiersmen _

My language specialties were French and German. I got into this game assuming I'd be working with the resistance when the Reds broke through the Fulda Gap. I was inspired by Kennedy and his call for public service. "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." What I could do was to put my body between two dominos, and, given a chance, make them fall the other way. So I got my gun, my wings, my Ranger designation, and eventually my Special Forces designation. Doing my duty for God and my country, as I had pledged. I received a commendation from Kennedy when I became an Eagle Scout, and it was with his blessing that we were allowed to wear the beret. 

It was after the crazy jarhead assassinated the man that my guys went to Vietnam. They were hot, humid, hellish days, and there were times where it rained for what seemed like years at a time. We were training the ARVN to fight. To hold up their domino themselves. 

There were places in the jungle where, even in the middle of the day, you never saw the sun. You could feel the heat everywhere, though, and in the darkest parts of the jungle, no air moved. It was like we were wading through a hot spring. We were there with half the A-Team, leaving the other six back at base camp. We were nursemaids for about 20 ARVN guys. Lt. Lavelle called 'em 'twenty guys named Nguyen'. We were going to show them how to do a proper ambush. Which means we dug holes, set up claymores, got hidden and waited until somebody walked by. 

One thing you learn is to sleep when you can. So, we rotated so one of us and two of the Nguyens were awake, and switched off every two hours. It was about 3, time to switch off. I took my eyes off the trail and started moving to roust Petersen for his shift when I saw it. It had slit Muldoon's throat with his own knife and was ... drinking the blood, sucking it out. It looked human, deathly pale with long, light brown hair pulled back in a pony-tail. It wore tiger-stripe fatigue pants and no boots. Tiger stripes meant he's a gre n beret, or had taken them from the body of a green beret. I was locked and loaded, and each of us had spent time with our M-16s, taking off or tightening down anything that would make a noise. I drew a bead on its back, drew and held my breath, and slowly, quietly flipped the safety off. 

It looked up at me. It had yellow eyes and a distorted face, a scar on his left eyebrow and Muldoon's blood dripping down his chin. He smiled. 

I went full auto, waking everyone around. Everyone started firing everywhere. The claymores went off. It went from a dark, quiet hell to a bright, loud hell, and then went back and Lavelle called to cease fire. He saw me, then he saw Muldoon. "Bac Si! Bac Si!" He was asking for the medic. I could've told him it was too late. I could see the windpipe. 

I told Lavelle what I saw, but never told anyone else. Who'd believe me? But we started hearing stories. We started hearing names. I didn't know the Vietnamese, but French had been spoken there for generations, so I heard some of the stories. There was a "Fantôme Blanc", "Fantôme Noir", "les Morts Affamés". There was one name I heard a few times. Guillaume. 

By my third tour, the Nguyens called me Dinky Dau. Crazy. I could care. Chose not to. I was no longer there because of a dead president's dream, nor to prop up a decayed domino. I was chasing a ghost. A White Ghost. An overgrown Cong Moui who drank the blood of a comrade. I always took point, I always took the late-night watches, and I always reconned the villages first. Lavelle had made Captain, and I was in his unit. Nobody else would put up with me. There were times I thought I saw him. Maybe a glimpse here or a trace of a footprint there. Not that I could tell anybody, but I knew his handiwork. When a village was hit by us, we burned it down. When a village was hit by the VC, they always mangled bodies. They wanted the other villages to know the cost of crossing them. The mystery villages just had bodies. Bodies where the throats were slit or torn out. 

And, oddly enough, they never killed the pigs. VC always killed the pigs. 

In 1968, at the end of my fourth tour, two days short, I was spending my time in Saigon, showing Captain Lavelle the resourcefulness of a deformed Eagle Scout. I has thrown helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, clean and reverent out the window. I kept trustworthy, loyal and brave. They fit the environment. I knew I was either out and training the next set of knuckledraggers how to live out here or I was out and finding out what a knuckledragger does with his life when he's back in the World. In the mean time, I was trying to be under the table for the two days before I was gone. 

I had a line of ten empty shot glasses in front of me, and another of full ones, on the bar when I heard his voice whisper into my ear. "So you must be Dinky Dau." 

I had turned in my gear, so there was nothing to grab when I went for my knife. He stepped back, holding his hands up, signaling truce. This was the first time I had heard his voice. He sounded British, like one of those Mersey Beat bands. The eyes were different -- blue, not yellow. He looked like a movie star, not a monster. But the scar above the left eye tipped me off. It had to be him. He wore a black t-shirt and bell-bottom dungarees, and wore his hair in a ponytail halfway down his back. "You've spent the last three years trying to find me. Here I am. Y'know, the french have messed up so many places so wonderfully. Have you noticed? It's the reverse of Midas. Everything they touch turns to merde. New Orleans. Tunisia. Haiti. Here. All perfectly wonderful places to visit. It took nearly 80 years to appreciate them, but I must say I get 'em now. I'll have to visit Montreal some time, test the pattern." 

I stare at him, tracing in my mind the line where Muldoon's blood had dripped down his chin. 

"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. They know me here as 'Guillaume'. Or 'Cong Moui'. Mosquito. Did you start that? Somewhat fitting. London was a stagnant pool back then. I hear it swings like a bloody pendulum these days. I should really go visit some time. It's been ages." He grabbed one of my shot glasses and emptied it. 

"You know I've killed for less? I've killed for that, specifically. Bloke said he'd rather have a railroad spike through his head than hear me prattle on. I obliged him, of course. But I did take the name. Better than 'Lucien, Prince of Lies', isn't it?" 

"Anyway, I thought I'd mention that I'm short, too. The missus says the King of Wands will fall to the Ten of Swords, and that there will be a wonderful celebration. Now," he stops to light a Marlboro ," I don't know what the hell that means, but what my Dru wants, my Dru gets. I'm thinking Detroit. I've been hearing bits and pieces from there. 'Kick out the jams, motherfuckers!' What a great way to start a song, don't you think?" 

I couldn't force my mouth to make words. I couldn't force my jaw to unclench. 

"Anyway, I thought I'd come by, say hi. Also, that bint over there, trying to be the good captain's shirt," he nodded over to Lavelle, sitting at a table with a vietnamese girl wearing hot pants and a bandana, "has enough C4 in her purse to bring down the block. I thought after 3 years in the boonies, you'd be able to smell it yourself. If I was you, I'd take a walk. Soon. Professional courtesy." He dropped a couple of bills on the bar and turned to the door. 

I took a second to get my breath back, then walked to the captain's table. "Sir, don't you think we should head back to the compound?" 

"No, Tony. I think I'm happy right here." 

"I really think we should di di mau." 

"You go ahead." 

I couldn't think of any way to get him out of there without being obvious and getting me dead, too. So I said my goodnights and stepped out the door. The place went up ten seconds after I was out. And I flew back to the World, leaving trustworthy, loyal and brave in a blown-up bar in Saigon. 


	2. Blood and Cigarettes

** A Series of Short Stories about William the Bloody **

_ Blood and Cigarettes _

I was part of a mission trip to Haiti that winter, back in 1990, partially because building a school for a rural village seemed like a useful and good thing to do for the world, and partially because spending Christmas break in the Caribbean sounded much more appealing than spending it in Nevada with the 'rents or back at school in Minnesota. OK, so I'm selfish. I admit it. But I tried. 

But it didn't work out as I had hoped. I imagined beautiful water and sandy beaches. I found beautiful water and rocky shores. Each day we got an early start, took a long lunch, and finished up by two. Warm caribbean days don't inspire the Protestant work ethic as much as freezing Minnesota days. And each day, when we got to the work site, all the kids would crowd around, yelling "Give me one blood! Give me one blood! Give me one cigarette! Give me one cigarette!" I was so confused when I heard that. What on earth does it mean? 

It's an odd thing to wake up to a radio broadcast telling you there's a coup attempt. It really makes you appreciate the United States. Major power shifts happen every 2 to 4 years, but none of it has to do with the use of weapons. The good thing was that we were on la Gonave. Most of the violence occurred in Port-au-Prince. There were a couple of places near the airport where I saw black marks on the road where people had been necklaced. 

The army decided not to follow the Tonton Macoute, so government went back to the way it was, and eventually Aristide would take the presidency. The first elected president in the history of the country. Mostly they just claim it. With guns. 

The day we got back from la Gonave, we stayed in a compound the church had in Petit Guave. We knew that there was a sundown-to-sunup curfew, and hoped that the US media would be world-watching enough to alert our families that things weren't normal here. Chris, Reverend Bob and I went into town to the phone company and made a collect call to Mom and Dad, telling them we're fine, things are calm and giving them a long list of phone numbers to contact, the families of the others. 

On the way back, we bumped into a woman in the Peace Corps. Evidently that's how it works; you see another white face in Haiti, and you have a friend. She could tell we were Americans because we were white, too. He had a long conversation. She was an ecology grad student taking some time off from her thesis by doing the work of ecology in Haiti. Her name was Kimberly and went to school at the University of Missouri, St. Louis. It turned out she knew a friend of mine, Chuck. He was a high school friend of mine and was one of her students when she TA'd Intro to Biology. She had long brown hair she kept in a braid and this beautiful necklace. The pretty kind, not the horrible kind. Hand-made. Beads and twine, mostly, but it was well-made and it worked hair with her dark hair and dark eyes. 

After dinner, we went to sleep, and some time at night, we started hearing dogs in the area barking. Then, there was a deep rumbling. First it was quiet and in the distance, then it grew louder. The trees and the wall were high enough to block any view of whatever it was, but it sounded like trucks or tanks or a train or something. But louder than a train. If you haven't been stopped by a train, you haven't been to Minnesota, and this was louder than four diesel engines pulling 40 cars of cattle and grain. To this day, I still have no idea what it was. But it was enough to wake me. I stayed away, considering the noise and the geckos on the ceiling when I heard these voices out the window. 

"I told you this would be a bloody bust. If we can get out of here soon, luv, we should be able to get to Bagdhad before everything goes boom. Take advantage of the situation." 

"I remember the grand parties, with the party favors. All sticky sweet and red inside." 

Their voices reminded me of the Young Ones. Definitely British. The male sounded like Nigel a bit. 

"Papa Doc always threw the best bashes, didn't he? Well, these ain't the old days." 

"Make them be again, Spike. Please do it." 

"Sorry, luv. Time must move forward. The way of the bloody world and all that. But that girl was a rare treat in these parts." 

"She tasted fishy." 

"She tasted nothing of the sort. Certainly not the feast that we had hoped for, but a rare jewel nonetheless, kitten. And she gave us this." 

"It is so pretty. Such a pretty bauble on such a pretty girl." 

I dared a look. I just had to see who. She looked a bit like a girl I had seen in a mosh pit at a Soul Asylum show. All "Dead Can Dance" goth girl, but without the nose ring. He looked a lot like Nigel, actually, except a blond instead of a redhead, and without the stars in his forehead. It took a second, when he struck a match against the compound wall and lit a cigarette, but then I could tell. It was Kimberly's necklace. 

"The heat's died down, I warrant, so we should be able to get to the good doctor. He'll mojo us to where we wanna go. Fancy Prague, luv?" 

"There's screaming and crying and beating there, Spike." 

"Sounds bloody wonderful, don't it?" 

I walked the wall before we went back to Port-au-Prince, and I found a cigarette butt stained a rusty brown. I never found out if it was Kimberly, but Chuck told me later that she didn't come back to finish her thesis. 

It turns out, by the way, that "blood" is pidgin for "balloon". I think a shortend form of "bladder", or something. "Cigarette" means candy. The kids were asking for balloons and candy. I keep reminding myself this. 


	3. Let's Get Lost

** A Series of Short Stories about William the Bloody **

_ Let's Get Lost _

He was a better player than Miles. 

I know that's a bold statement. It's also the goddamn truth. There's a few things I know about, and jazz is one of 'em. He wasn't a technical guy, but hell, neither was Miles. It's about playing to your heart, and he had it in spades. And he was a better lay than Miles, and I know something about that. 

But he was hooked, and Miles wasn't. I know all about that, too. 

I was his girl. There were a hundred of us. He was never our guy. We gave ourselves to him, but he never gave back. Except when he was a better player than Miles. 

Hey, I was quite the looker, once. So was he. We threw it down the drain. With booze, with junk, with everything. We thought we'd live forever. We always thought New York or Paris. It turned out to be Amsterdam. 

We were at this dive. He was leading the wrong band. The piano player warmed up with Rush songs and the drummer kept trying to turn standard ballads into reggae. A backing band anxious to get back to their mediocre dreams to properly support a living legend. I was pushing drinks. 

At the end of the night, after a painful take on "Round Midnight", there was only two people left. A guy, skinny, pretty short, looked like Billy Idol's stunt double, complete with spiky peroxide hair. Sounds a bit like him, too. Drank single malt whiskey and looked like he'd rather be anywhere other than listening to the lamest worshipers of Sly and Robbie and Geddy Lee slaughter jazz standards. I was right with him. 

The girl looked like Eliza Doolittle's junkie twin sister, and she responded to every solo like she was a child watching a magic act. Each time I stopped by, she asked for absinthe. After the fifth time I told her we didn't have anything like that, the guy whispered to me to just bring a Shirley Temple and she'll never know the difference. She was real creepy. 

Anyway, after the set, he announced in his mangled Dutch that the band was finished and that we were closing. The guy came up to him and they talked some. After he put his trumpet away, he came and told me they were coming home with us. That was the last thing I wanted. But like I said, I was his girl, so we went. 

When we got to the hotel, I went about my work; bending the spoons, preparing the junk, opening the window to tempt in a breeze, everything but tying him off and finding an uncollapsed vein. There's a limit to what you can do, even if you're his girl. 

"My manners have lapsed," he said to our guests as he found a vein and pushed the plunger in. "Can I offer you anything?" 

"Not at all. I prefer second-hand smack, myself." 

"Can I open it yet?" The girl has been looking at me with this crazy, hungry look on her face. Like that time Lori and I blew pot smoke in Tigger's face. 

"Dru, luv, that is not your present. This is your present." The guy's pointing at him. At HIM. 

"He looks all veiny, Spike. Not at all nummy." 

He gets this frustrated look on his face, which spreads to his whole body. His long leather duster slaps his legs as he paces. 

"Dru and I saw you play 'My Funny Valentine' in 1958, I think at the Five Spot. You and Stan. I'm more of an Ornette Coleman fan, myself. The double quartet is a brilliant idea, says I. But my Dru, she had a ball, and now she has a request. A special song for Valentine's Day." 

Bullshit, I say. Neither of these two was even born ín 1958. But he's buying it. Totally. I don't get it. 

The guy leans in. "Don't mention that it's May and Valentine's Day is three months past. It might cause her to ... just don't. And might I suggest that you play like your life depended on it. Because I do believe it does." 

I tried to remember where he kept the gun. But he acts like this is the most natural thing. He opened up his case, put together his horn, warmed up a bit, and began to play. He played the head, sang the verses. A little solo right before last verse. 

My funny valentine   
Sweet comic valentine   
You make me smile with my heart   
  
Your looks are laughable   
Unphotographable   
Yet you're my favorite work of art   
  
Is your figure less than greek?   
Is your mouth a little bit weak?   
When you open it to speak, are you smart?   
  
Don't change a thing for me   
Not if you care for me   
Stay little valentine stay   
  
Each day is valentine's day   


I've seen him play that a thousand times, and I've always been impressed. It was so beautiful it made your soul ache. 

The girl -- Dru, I guess her name is -- stood up and walked over to him. It might have been the fear, or it might have been the junk, but her face reminded me of one of those cat clocks. She had big yellow eyes and ridges that reminded me of the 'M' you see on the foreheads of tabby cats. 

I started giggling. It was all just ... surreal. The guy whispered into my ear. "Luv, do stop." 

He wasn't a tall man and she had an inch on him with those heels. She kissed his lips, she kissed his cheek, she kissed his neck and his eyes rolled back in his head. I heard a slurp and he fell to the floor. He was dead. I could tell. It was all I could do to keep my legs from buckling. 

"Now Dru, we had this discussion about this." The guy's voice was so gentle, like he was comforting a five year old who found her goldfish, not a monster with the blood of "You remember what you did to Bix. You're supposed to take a sip, remember? Leave 'em feeling lightheaded. Now all our friends will hate us." 

"Now the song will be mine forever! It will only belong to me! No one else shall have it!" She sounded like a crazed Shirley Temple, throwing a tantrum. 

"That was his signature song, luv." The guy was starting to let his exasperation enter his voice. "There are a thousand records with that song on it. It is what he's known for!" 

"And the whole world shall know it, Spike. All the children who love and play will have it. This is how I will rule the world." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "As long as the stars swim in the sea, the children will hear and be his, and he will ever be mine. Why, the world is mine already." They kissed, and the blood of the man who owned my heart began to drip down the blond man's chin. My heart sunk, my knees shook, but I couldn't turn away. She turned to me. "Why, she's already mine, isn't she?" 

"Now, Drusilla, there's work I must do here. You run on. I'll take care of everything." 

When Dru left, the guy -- Spike -- sat hard on the couch. "There are times I just don't know what to do with that woman. The madness and weakness are such a weight. But each time you think it's been enough, been much more than enough, she smiles and everything is perfect." He looks down at the body. "I imagine you know something about that." 

"Am I going to die?" 

"Yes." He looks right into my eyes. "Yes, you will die. It's the way of all flesh, dear." He stood and started pacing. "The question is, am I going to kill you? I could set you up in some murder-suicide deal. Thing is, I don't know that I could do that to him. I put on a show, saying I like harmelodic noise to the jazz snobs, but I'm a sucker for a melody. He played good. He shouldn't be made into the new Fatty Arbuckle." He stopped and looked at me. "Or, you take a walk, grab some smoke, and forget you saw me. When the sun rises, there will have been a sad, stupid accident, capping a life of tortured genius and wasted potential. And the poets will dream he's jamming with Bird." 

He helped me to the door. My legs moved me to a friend's place, and we drank wine and smoked a few joints and cried 'til dawn. 

The official story is that he fell out the window. Leading conspiracy theory says he was tossed out by a dealer. I just keep quiet. Wouldn't you? 


	4. A New Rose

**A New Rose**

Rosalind never thought she was pretty. She hated her freckles. She hated her hair, red and frizzy and always looking like a rat's nest. She hated her body. Sometimes she thought she was too skinny. Most of the time she thought she was too fat. She wore big sweaters and shirts all through high school, trying to hide her body and what puberty had done to it. Now her friends were gone to college or just gone, and she was here. She moved into her parents' basement and started to work the late shift at the Co-Op, running the register and selling gas, oil and pop until they close up at 2am. 

She had seen a picture in Steph's _Rolling Stone_ of Siouxie and the Banshees, looking like a black and white movie, even in color. So romantic. So beautiful. She could never hear the music, because they didn't have cable. She knew what she thought it sounded like, and some nights she would start the cassette she bought from a truck stop on a vacation trip to Rapid City once. Some nights, she would put it in her Walkman, mix some of Dad's whiskey with a can from her stash of Old Coke and replay it over and over. 

_Would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red rose?_

_Would he offer me his mouth?_

_Yes._

Some of the songs sound more than a little like the Time-Life _Songs of the '50s_ collection, and they were always part of the playlist when she went to parties, along with .38 Special and Lynyrd Skynyrd. She hated to go, she hated the guys she'd end up going home with, and she hated how they never called afterwards. 

It was another night at the Co-Op when he came. It was supposed to be Alicia's night, but she and Billy were seeing a big show in Sioux Falls and so she was covering the shift. She had the racks filled up and the wiper racks filled up, so she had nothing to do but listen to the radio play "Jump" and "New Moon on Monday" and "Billy Jean" over and over and accept money and comments from the farmer boys filling up their pickups. She had died her jeans black and wore a black ribbon choker that had been her _bedstemor_'s, but wore the faded pink pearl-button blouse rather than black because she didn't want to poke holes in it with her "Hi, I'm Roz" nametag. 

He drove a black 60s Mustang with a few rusty scratches down the side. He filled up the tank, then came in, asked for hard-pack Marboros and dropped a $20 on the counter. He had spiked blonde hair and a black t-shirt and a great leather overcoat that flapped around him like a cape. 

She worked up some courage. "Y'know, you look a lot like Billy Idol." 

"Tosser nicked the look from me." He replied in a British accent, like Sting in that Brimstone movie Steph found on USA once. "The git was much better in Generation X." He tapped the pack against the counter and walked out, lighting up as he went. 

_Will he offer me his mouth?_

_Yes._

She saw him every night or two over the next few weeks. Normally it was "Fill up the tank. Pack or Marboros." Sometimes he'd throw down a map and frustratedly ask for directions to Pipestone or Glencoe and she'd trace the route with a red Bic pen. Then he'd light up, leave a fresh track of rubber outside, and be gone for another few days. 

And she would close, go home, get something to drink (less her dwindling stack of Coke, more the blended whiskey her Dad must be noticing by now), lie down on her worn couch and think of him. 

_Will he offer me his hunger?_

_Yes._

She wore the black blouse this night because of her Great Uncle Karl. He had climbed up into the the hay loft for a rest and some shade after walking beans. Uncle Sigurd climbed up to wake him and couldn't. The funeral wasn't going to be for a few days, so that all the relatives could fly in. The Army would provide the stone, because he had fought against the Japanese in the Aleutians, and the American Legion was getting a trumpeter and honor guard in from Marshall. The coroner said it was just a stroke, that he was just old. 

That night, the British blonde man -- she thought of him as "Billy" -- came in and paused before asking for his brand of smokes. "That's a new look on you, luv. Is there a meanin' to it, or just flyin' a look?" 

"My ... my uncle. He died." 

"Oh." He paused for a second. "Sorry. I'm sure he was a good bloke. I'll take Marboros." 

_Again, will he offer me his hunger?_

_Yes!_

She began to keep a Marlboro hard pack next to the register, so when he came in, with his cold blue eyes and high cheekbones, she'd be ready. The three minutes he spends between filling up his car -- now an old Porsche he climbs through the window like _Dukes of Hazzard_ -- are the highlight of her nights. He's down to t-shirt and black jeans most of the time, because the long coat doesn't work with the door. 

"So, you're Roz, then?" 

"Yeah." She felt uncomfortable, having him stare at he nametag on her chest, but she stuck it out all the more. 

"That's sort for something, innit? No parent looks at their squigly thing and says 'This one's Roz', right?" 

"Rosalind. It's short for Rosalind." She blushed, bringing out her freckles. "I'm named after an aunt." 

"That's missin' a trick, though. A thorny little beauty such as yourself should have a proper name. Rose. You should be called Rose." 

"What do they call you?" 

He smiled. "They called me William when I first came out, but I prefer Spike." He again flipped open his Zippo and lit up as he walked away. 

Thorny. She reminded herself that he called her thorny. 

_And will he starve without me? _

_Yes!_

One night, he came in with a book. A book with a worn leather cover, like Tanta Anna's big black Bible with all the pictures and the birthdates of all her cousins written in it. 

A cigarette dangles from his mouth as he started to talk. "I picked up this book. I was told it has what I need, but I don't know the lingo. Think you could help me, luv?" 

She took a look. It looked Danish to her, but despite some prodding irom her _bedstemor_, she never got much farther than _uff da_. She thought of a few names who might be able to help. She wanted him to think well of her. She wanted him to think of her. She wanted him. 

She found out the next day that someone had broken into the Lutheran Church in Lake Benton. She never heard what was taken. 

_And does he love me?_

_Yes._

This night is different. His car, now a black 60s T-Bird with suicide doors, was smoking and sputtering next to the pumps, and he cursed and pounded on the hood. 

She walked out and waited for a pause in the pounding and cursing before speaking. "I think it's taken its last breath." 

"Bugger." He stood still, barely breathing. 

"Do you need to be somewhere?" She had worn her black denim skirt and black cowboy boots that night, with the black blouse and the choaker. She even wore the matching red silk bra and panties, the color of the shirt he usually wore over the black T-shirt. "I could give you a ride someplace." 

"You'd do that?" 

"It'd be my pleasure." 

She closed up half an hour early, walking home quick to get her K-Car, then inviting him again for a ride. He didn't give directions, so she started driving south out of town, past the school. She grabbed her tape out of the glove compartment and put it in. 

"Not this bollocks!" He reached into his shirt pocket and switched cassettes. Intense drumming, almost tribal, followed by buzzsaw guitar. "I bloody hate Meat Loaf." 

The lyrics hit her heart like a key to a lock. _Kind of strange. Like a stormy sea._ That's it exactly. She pulled up on a bluff overlooking the lake and listened to the tape, which switched to other great songs she had never heard. She would ask for the title, and sip from his flask, and he would answer. Buzzcocks. Ramones. Television. Talking Heads. Southern Death Cult. One song started with feedback and noise and sped up to a dangerous velocity. _When I get to the bottom, will I see you again?_

"Song's the Beatles', luv, but the singer's Siouxie Sioux. Like your indians here, I gather." She turned up the song, rolled down the windows and stepped out to dance. She didn't know how they danced to this in London or New York, so she just swayed and shook her head. She felt him come up behind her. _Do you don't you want me to make you?_ She leaned back into him. The night was hot and humid, and she knew dew was covering her boots as she moved her feet, making them wet. The wind was light, enough to make her feel comfortable and to keep the mosquitos away. He swept his arm across her and her buttons ripped off her good black blouse, which fell open and revealed her red brassiere. She turned toward him and she felt herself lifted onto the hood of her car. Siouxie stopped, but he kept going as a a new song started. She heard fabric tear and she wrapped her legs around him, hooking her left boot with her right. His tongue slipped into her mouth, then he kissed down, down, down her neck. 

_On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses? _

_Her vision closed like a tunnel until all she saw was the full moon. She tasted an iron taste in her mouth, and everything went black. _


	5. For David Beckham and all the bloody Gre

Written for:   
Max angst level I want in my story: 4   
Up to two characters I definitely want: Spike, Dawn   
Scenario: it's the end of the world! Again!   
Rating: NC-17 (if you can swing it)   
Restrictions: no Bitch!Buffy, you can kill anyone but Xander   


**For David Beckham And All The Bloody Greyhounds**

She landed on a stack of cement blocks, then bounced. Spike could hear her bones shatter as she hit. Just as the old man's bones had. Just as his had. The old man wasn't a man, and he and tucked his tail between his legs and crawled off to look for his goddess. The Slayer's just a girl in the end, and this fall was more than any girl could walk, or even crawl, away from. The sweet aroma of her blood came to him, and as sweet as it was, he couldn't breathe it in. It hurt his .... ribs to suck it in.

First thing he learned, years ago, is the smell of the morning air. There's a tartness to it that you best recognize quick, else you find yourself lit into a corner, or behind a piece of plywood, as the case may be. It lay under the sweetness of the Slayer's blood, telling him that, behind the glowy magic clouds, Mister Sun's ready to come out and play. He heard Red's voice in his head, an exhausted voice calling for order. She stumbled over the words. She knew the needs but not the terms. "'Defensible perimeter', you stupid bint", he heard himself say. The taste of water and salt touched his tongue as he said it.

He smelled the others, even as he kept his eyes on the blocks. Red's girl, wandering around looking for Glory-knows-what. The Watcher, taking weapons off the bodies of the simples. Red, desperation and fear coming off her in waves. The forces of hell would be coming through soon, she knew as he knew. They had a hard enough time with the Bitch Queen and her trolls, not to mention Sunnydale's 1st Foot (the Hellgod's Own Loonies). Like fighting ants, they were, with each fighter not being much but all of 'em fighting under control of the queen. Add to that his not bein' able to hurt 'em and the Slayer's idiots not being willing, and that explains why the fight was even a fight. If they had just dropped their namby-pamby ethics and let loose on the nut squad, then the Slayer...

He recognized the heavy footsteps on the metal ramp. It wasn't until they closed in that he noticed the other one, but the iron smell was unmistakable. "'Lo, bit", he whispered. The pieces of his ribs ground together as he spoke.

"Spike!" There was no reason for Monkey Boy to yell. "Spike! We need you to watch her. There's a ... a green thing ... with horns, and we need you to keep an eye on her. Can you do that?"

No. Can't do a goddamn thing, can he? Tried to make her love him, made bloody mess of that. Tried to be the hero, got tossed to the side. Can't do a bloody thing right.

"Spike. For the love of ..."

"I can hear you." The words slipped out between sobs. "I have her. Go."

The bit bawled into the leather and the fake cherry of her shampoo flooded his senses.

He eased her back, toward the wall and away from the streetlights. By description and sound, it's a Nig-Si. The green ones are a right pain, but they hunt by sight, not smell.

He could hear Red's orders in his head. She'd sent the befuddled ones into the breech against the green thing. Or at least she tried to. They tend to lack discipline, and their lines were not holding. He could hear them being flung into walls in the distance.

"She ..."

"Hush, bit. Just let it out..." He petted her head, running his fingers over her hair, past her neck to her shoulder.

"No! She said she figured it out!" She pushed herself up, away from him. "She solved it! She said ... and then she turned and she ...."

"Yes. Yes, she did, luv." He used his good arm to push himself up. The other one wasn't solid enough to do it. "Can't see the logic in it, myself, but she must've thought she sussed out somethin'. Solved the whole lot."

"Dawn." The voice surprised them both. Monkey Boy came around the corner, hair matted with blood. Drips of blood run parallel to the stripes of his shirt. He held his demon lover, carrying her. She didn't hold him back. Her head and arms lay limp. Her eyes were open.

"Dawn. She's ... she's hurt. She's hurt bad. I have to get back. Please, do you think you could try to ...."

Dawn stood up, leaving a place to lay her down. "If you put direct pressure on the wounds, that'll help stop the bleeding." He stood up again, unsteady, shaking and leaning against the wall. Dawn started to tear fabric from the bottom of her dress. "Please, let her be OK."

Dawn looked up, eyes still red and puffy. "I will. I'll ... I'll take care of her. Go."

Xander more staggered than walked into the still-dark street.

Spike put his hand out, on top of Dawn's. "Bit...." She pushed it away.

"Help or not, Spike, but don't get in the way. I have to take care of her. I promised."

"I heard, nibblet. I was here."

"I promised _her_! She told me I had to take care of them." She wiped a tear on her sleeve, then started leaning on the bandage on Anya's shoulder. "I have to take care of her. I have to."

"But, bit, she's gone. Her heart's stopped. She was gone before he turned the corner."

Dawn collapsed, crying, on Anya's chest.

"Come, bit. I can fix it. I can fix everything."

Dawn leaned into his hug, her tears spilling down his black t-shirt. He gave her squeeze, then tightened as he moved his arm up toward her head.

Dawn lifted her head. "Are you...."

"Just a bit of pain, luv. Nothin' for you to worry your pretty head about."

After she settled down and her breathing steadied, he reached up and started petting her hair, as he had done before.

Her neck snapped gently. The pain locked his muscles, so he couldn't cry or call out, even as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds.


	6. Sealed With A Kiss

Sealed With A Kiss

Written for the Summer of Spike

* * *

October 1978  
New York City

The phone call came at right around 11am, coming from an outside line.

"There's trouble in Room 100." That's all the voice said, then hung up. The desk clerk sent up the bellboy. Minutes later, the bellboy came running down and the desk clerk called the police.

* * *

April 1977

London

Spike laughed as the band took to the stage.

"Bloody hell. They booted the only one of the lot with any bleedin' talent, didn't they?"

The crowd started pogoing as soon as the guitarist started the riff. The drums jumped up behind. The bass notes followed randomly, out of tune, out of time. The singer, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

_I don't wanna holiday in the sun_  
I wanna go to new Belsen  
I wanna see some history  
_'Cause now I got a reasonable economy_

"Oh, Spike. This is not a love song either!" Dru squeezed her porcelin doll to her chest.

"Of course, luv." Spike shrugged, the studs on his shoulder scraped against against the wall in the back. He took a sip from his pint and wrapped his free arm around Drusilla's shoulders. "Don't expect many of them from this lot."

"That one is pretty." Dru pointed to the one with the spiky black hair, a padlock chained to his neck and carrying a white bass guitar. A black leather jacket hung off his shoulders. "Many will follow him.

"That tosser?" The black-haired boy stood, sneering at the audience. "Don't feature him leadin' himself, much less leadin' people." He took another drink off the pint, dropping it and letting it shatter at his feet.

Dru took a step forward. Her black shawl fell off her shoulders. "I see cities falling to dust. Blood stains and millions of dead policemen, Spike, and all because of him."

He lost her laughter in the amplification as she twirled into the crowd.

* * *

__

He hadn't needed an invitation, but she invited him in anyway. She remembered him from before. From England. She wore just her knickers. The boy slept in his clothes on the bed. She poked at him, calling his name. "Sid. It's him. That guy."

"That's all right, luv. He isn't the person I was plannin' to talk to, anyway."

* * *

May 1977  
London

One match would've set the place alight.

One match would've solved all his petty problems.

The black-haired bloodbag lay under a ratty blanket, red t-shirt covering his chest. His American bint was curled up in a ball in the corner, her works abandoned next to her. He kicked at a pile of clothing and beer bottles.

One match.

Dru's hair covered the swastika on the front of the boy's t-shirt. His blood was on her lips and a blissful smile stretched across her face.

Spike pushed the corner of the blanket, revealing the face of a china doll, glass eyes closed to the world. Outside, the first hints of morning light were rising over the city.

One match

He struck a match on the wall, lit a cigarette and dropped it on the blanket. A needle of flame came up from the blanket. He watched the fire grow, consuming what it touched.

There was enough in a discarded bottle of beer to stuff the fire before it grew. Spike took a drag from his cigarette, then left the room.

* * *

__

Her blonde hair fell in her face as she lit a cigarette. "He's, like, really going to get big. We're going to clean up, and we're going to get big."

His hand pulled the knife from the boy's pocket and opened it. He could feel the embossed eagle on the handle, warm against his palm.

* * *

October 1977

Manhattan

Just like with Hercules, the last of the labours is the bitch.

What few minions that aren't dust have found a hole, riding the storm out. Fuck them. They'll only claim the glory.

Spike paced the platform, swinging around the pillars. His dog-tags clinking together and the hum of the lighting were the only sounds. He slid off his jacket, letting it drop to the corner.

He's earned the trust. He's snuffed the enemies. He's found the perfect nest and he's jockeyed for position. This one last thing and he'd have it all together.

Dru loved him the last time.

He heard the train before he saw it, rumbling through the tunnels, and without question, she was on it.

Death and glory. Sod all else.

* * *

__

She didn't really notice when he kissed her. It stopped her rambling on.

It's revenge, more than anything. Tit for tat, so to speak. The darkness of his life, separated for so long. The better part of a century together, and his love left for him. It's only fair that he'd take something of his.

She certainly didn't notice when his face changed. She did notice when the blade went in.

* * *

January 1978  
Dallas

She wore a battered straw cowboy hat when he found her. Its former owner leaned against the wall of the alley. The pearl buttons of his shirt were snapped open to his waist and blood leaked down his neck and off his lips. The sound of the guitar cut through the cement walls.

"I thought I'd find you about."

The heels of Dru's thigh-high boots scraped over the gravel of the alley, coming toward Spike's black motorcycle boots. "You're different, Spike."

"I've made us a home, Dru. I want ... I want you to come."

Dru moved closer and ran her hands over the black leather covering chest. The hem of it bumped against his combat boots. "You've changed your look."

"I ran into a bit of trouble. It's all been taken care of, luv."

She moved close, hands reaching under the long black coat. Blood dripped from her lips as she smiled. "You've done it again, haven't you?"

"I did it for you, luv."

Drusilla's smile faded as she backed away. "My silly, careless boy." She caresses his face, then backed away, walking toward a graffitoed tour bus on the street.

* * *

__

She didn't scream or cry. She kept quiet, crawling with what strength she could to the bathroom, where she could close the door, keeping him out.

He knew how much blood she lost. He knew how much blood she had. She'd never make it.

He turned and left, stopping to tuck the knife back in his pocket. Have to get out before the shadows get too small.

* * *

September 1978  
New York City

"If you want the personal touch, I can't be fucking bothered."

Drusilla knew he was there. Spike knew that much. She sat at a table, near the stage. He stood in the shadows in the back, where they stood the last time they were there. A much better band, with a much better singer than her new boy there.

They came to his town. _His_ town. Paid for with blood and fear. How _dare they_ rub his face in it? And no, he couldn't hurt her. Ever. She knew that, and she used it. And her new pet.

_Now I wanna be you dog!  
Now I wanna be you dog!  
Now I wanna be you dog!  
Well come on!_

He saw her standing on the side of the stage, unkempt blonde hair swaying as she moved to the music. He'd never touch the boy, never harm a hair on his head. But he'd go down anyway.

* * *

October 1978  
New York City

Spike stood under the elevated tracks, shielded from the sun as he fed quarters into the payphone. The other end picked up on the third ring. "There's trouble in Room 100." He hung up, then swung at the phone, shattering it and spreading change around his feet. He drew his coat around him and went back to his car. He had things to do. Bodies to find. As it started, the radio started up, cranked loud.

_Still oh out on those pills  
Cheap thrills Anadins  
Aspros anything  
You're condemned to eternal bullshit  
You're sealed with a kiss  
Kiss me_


End file.
